


focal point

by pyrophane



Category: NINE PERCENT (Band), 偶像练习生 | Idol Producer (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Coming Untouched, Light Pining, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 22:30:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14861495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrophane/pseuds/pyrophane
Summary: If Ziyi set a hand to his shoulder, felt it taut and warm beneath his fingertips, all that gathered trembling effort, he thinks Xukun might shatter.





	focal point

**Author's Note:**

> this is not the cxk/wzy fic i thought i would write but life comes at you fast sometimes. content notes: all the usual consent issues stemming from sex pollen type scenarios, also a gratuitous amount of zzt namedropping since apparently i can’t go an entire fic without bringing him up.
> 
> n, if you read this and actually want this mess, it's yours ♡

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They’ve barely set foot in the dorms before Ziyi finds himself being dragged out of the door again, Xukun’s hand clamped around his wrist, over his shirt cuff. He doesn’t offer any explanation, doesn’t even look at Ziyi. Ziyi blinks at the back of Xukun’s head, then casts a helpless glance over his shoulder at the others, but Zhengting is the only one who’s even noticed, mouth is pressed into a thin line, like he’s trying not to laugh.

He lets Xukun shepherd him all the way to the practice studio adjoining their dorm building. As soon as the door closes behind them Xukun drops his wrist and practically scrambles to the other side of the room, dropping into a crouch. Ziyi doesn’t miss that this puts as much distance between them as physically possible. He takes a step forward, and Xukun tenses.

“Kun?” Ziyi ventures, letting the bewilderment trickle into his voice.

Xukun drags a hand through his hair, tips his head back against the wall, squeezes his eyes shut. There’s a harsh stutter to his breathing. The pale curve of his neck sheened over with sweat.

Ziyi crosses the floor, carefully, slowly, and kneels in front of Xukun. Reaches towards Xukun’s forehead. He doesn’t miss the way Xukun tips forward into the contact, eyes slipping shut, the first increment of a collapse, before he flinches away, but even from the distance of centimetres Ziyi can feel the heat radiating off his skin. Almost blistering under his fingers. “You’re burning up,” Ziyi says. “Are you—”

“The water,” Xukun grits out. “At the fansign. There was something. I think I’m—”  

He breaks off. When he opens his eyes again they’re dark, glittering, barely a sliver of iris visible around pupils blown wide. The flush spilling over his cheekbones feverishly bright. Mouth red and wet.

“Don’t touch me,” Xukun says raggedly. “If you—if I start touching you I won’t be able to stop.”

 _Oh._ Ziyi knows what this is. Last month they’d had a scare like this, some drug in the chocolates a fan had handed to Yanjun but he’d only taken a bite and could laugh it off afterwards, while this—

Xukun is holding himself still, so still Ziyi imagines the muscles shimmering with tension beneath his skin. If Ziyi set a hand to his shoulder, felt it taut and warm beneath his fingertips, all that gathered trembling effort, he thinks Xukun might shatter.

“I should get someone,” Ziyi says. “One of the staff, or—Yanjun, or Zhengting, or—”

Xukun’s shaking his head. He runs his hands through his hair again. Flattens himself further against the wall. “Can’t—I can’t let them see—”

“Okay,” Ziyi says. “Okay, just—tell me, what do you—”

“I want you,” Xukun bursts out, and the words sound like they’ve been dragged syllable by syllable out of the depths of him. Land like a blow to the ribs. It’s Ziyi’s turn to go still. “Ziyi. I need you to touch me, please, it’s too hot, I can’t _think_ —”

“This isn’t what you want,” Ziyi says, barely aware of what’s coming out of his mouth. “It’s not you speaking, it’s the—drug, or whatever—you don’t actually want this, you just think you do…”

Xukun lets out a low, frustrated growl. “You _know_ me,” he says. “You know I’m telling the truth, you—it’s you, it’s always been you, ever since the show—fuck, since the first time I saw you, on the pyramid, do you need me to say it—” His voice changes, turns rougher, deeper. He leans forward, shifting closer, and Ziyi should move away, but he doesn’t. “I think about you when I’m getting myself off. You pinning me down. Your hands on my dick. So many times I’ve fucked myself open imagining how much better it’d be if it was your fingers inside me. Wang Ziyi, I’ve wanted you for so fucking long, will you just _touch_ me already—”   

“Stop,” Ziyi says, though part of him is electrified by want, half-hard just from the sound of Xukun’s voice laying out everything he’s apparently thought about him, wrong as it is when Xukun’s judgement is so obviously _compromised_. He’s probably as red as Xukun by now. “Xukun, stop it, I don’t want to hear—this isn’t something you’d want me to know.”

Whatever was in the water has clearly smashed Xukun’s filter, if not yet his self-restraint. Ziyi bites his lip and regrets it when Xukun’s focus telescopes, snapping to his mouth with an abrupt intensity he’d find comical in any other circumstance.

He isn’t blind. He can tell Xukun lets his guard down a little further around him than the others, though there’s so much he still keeps locked up, and Ziyi’s fine with it; everyone’s entitled to their own secrets and Ziyi has never been the type to pry, which is probably why they get along so well. But it’s because Xukun always maintains such rigorous control over himself that it’s close to terrifying seeing him cracked open like this, and even if Ziyi let himself think about whatever might lie behind Xukun’s drug-induced words this isn’t how he would’ve wanted to hear it. He doesn’t think this is how Xukun would’ve wanted to say it, either.

“Don’t you think about it?” Xukun says. His hands fluttering, bunching against his thighs, a nervous tic he’d never normally let himself show. “Sometimes you look at me and I’m sure—but I can never tell. With you.” Suddenly he’s almost shy, and that’s worse, somehow, so agonisingly close to sincerity Ziyi’s chest aches. Of course he’s thought about it. Of course he wants Cai Xukun; the entire world wants him. When Ziyi figured it out—that what he felt for Xukun was _longing_ , plain and simple—he’d accepted it as a fact of life and moved on. There was no space for that kind of emotion with their shared dream at stake. It didn’t have to change anything, except now Xukun’s kneeling over him, delirious and telling Ziyi he wants him and unmistakeably hard, though Ziyi’s trying rather futilely not to look at the outline of Xukun’s dick pressing against the front of his jeans.  

“I can’t,” Ziyi says desperately, but even as he says it Xukun is surging forward onto Ziyi’s lap, mouth finding Ziyi’s, clumsy and demanding, teeth catching on his lower lip, fingers pressing into the underside of Ziyi’s jaw to angle his head the way Xukun wants. All veneers of stillness abandoned in an instant. For a moment he’s too stunned to do much more than let Xukun kiss him, lick into his mouth. Ziyi brings a hand up to push Xukun away, but his thumb catches on the swoop of his cheekbone and Xukun turns his head into the cradle of Ziyi’s palm, rolls his hips down, and that train of thought short-circuits.

“Please,” Xukun says, all breathy, tucking his face into the crook of Ziyi’s neck. He yanks Ziyi’s shirt free from where it’s tucked into his pants and slides his hand underneath, presses his palm flat to Ziyi’s stomach. His skin is scorching. “I need you.”

It’s incredibly hard to think with Xukun mouthing at the hollow of his throat. “Okay,” Ziyi manages. “Okay, how do we—”

“There’s supplies,” Xukun gasps out. “Drawers under the speaker. Zhengting thinks I don’t know.”

Fleetingly Ziyi wonders what exactly Zhengting is doing in the practice studios, before Xukun grinds against him again, more insistent this time, the friction even through the fabric of their trousers sparking jolts up Ziyi’s spine. “You have to—ah, let me up,” Ziyi says, biting back a groan. “Kun, if you want me to—I need to, I need to get up.”

Xukun chokes out a laugh, breath heavy against the thin skin of Ziyi’s neck, and clambers off him. Somehow Ziyi gets to his feet and makes his way to the speaker, swiping a fistful of the foil packets in the cabinet. When he looks back Xukun’s wriggled out of his jeans, is on his knees and thrusting shallowly into the ring of his fist, jaw slack. He looks halfway wrecked already, hair all mussed, the gleam of his exposed collarbone where his oversized shirt has fallen open nearly indecent in and of itself. Eyes shuttered as he bends his head forward, curling in on himself, and the strange incongruent delicacy of the motion nearly undoes Ziyi.

Ziyi steps behind him. Hesitates, then presses his mouth to the back of Xukun’s neck, just over the first knob of his spine, and Xukun shudders, back bowing like a switchblade folding into place. “Ziyi,” he says, and he sounds wrecked, too. “Don’t— _ah—_ don’t tease.”

Ziyi curves a hand around Xukun’s hip. “Are you—”

“ _Yes_ , yes, I’m sure, how many times do I have to say it,” Xukun snaps, twisting around to face him. He grabs Ziyi’s hand, folds Ziyi’s fingers around the head of his cock, slick with precome, gasping when Ziyi tightens his grip and starts stroking. With one hand he cups the back of Ziyi’s neck to pull him into a sloppy kiss, fumbles at Ziyi’s fly with the other, shoving his trousers down past his hips and palming his erection through his underwear. The barrier of fabric does nothing to dampen the heat of the touch. “Come on, come on,” Xukun chants into Ziyi’s mouth.

He has to let go of Xukun’s cock to get his trousers off all the way and Xukun whines, throwing an an arm over his eyes as he wraps his other hand around himself again. Pausing as he reaches for the foil packets, Ziyi pulls Xukun’s arm off his face to brush his lips over Xukun’s knuckles and Xukun flushes even redder, yanks his hand back. “Oh my god,” he says, sounding strangled. “You can’t just— _do_ things like that.”

Ziyi hums. He tears one of the packets open, spilling lube over his fingers, shuffling to kneel between Xukun’s legs, and Xukun lifts his hips, clearly impatient.

Xukun hisses at the first press of Ziyi’s finger into him. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” Xukun says. “Keep going.”

Obligingly, Ziyi slides a second finger in alongside the first, careful, giving Xukun time to adjust to the stretch. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says.

“I can take it,” Xukun insists. “Don’t mind anyway. If it hurts.”

The problem is that Ziyi can’t tell if that’s Xukun or the drug talking. Like he knows what he’s thinking, Xukun scowls, balancing himself with his palms against the floor, and pushes his hips down against his fingers, fucking himself open. Ziyi skims his free hand up Xukun’s stomach, the hot tense plane of his chest, rucking his shirt up. His thumb skates over a nipple and Xukun arches into the touch, makes an inarticulate noise at the back of his throat that goes straight to Ziyi’s dick.

“You’re the worst,” Xukun pants. “Can you _—_ ”

Ziyi pushes a third finger in, watching Xukun’s mouth fall open, the rest of the sentence dissolving into a hitched breath. Xukun shifts his weight to peel a hand off the floor and touch himself, and Ziyi goes to help him, thumb moving along the underside of Xukun’s cock as he fucks his fingers in and out of him.  

He crooks his fingers slightly, and Xukun tenses, then comes near soundlessly all over their linked hands, head snapping back, the vulnerable arch of his bare throat catching the light.

Miraculously, Xukun’s still hard. “Dude,” Ziyi says, before his mind catches up to his mouth.

“Just _fuck me,_ ” Xukun groans, so Ziyi leans forward to kiss the pulse jumping erratically at his throat, drawing his fingers out. As quickly as he can Ziyi rolls a condom onto himself and lines Xukun up, a hand braced on Xukun’s hip to ease into him, though Xukun has no such qualms, hooking a leg around his waist to pull him in further.

Both of them exhale as Ziyi rocks his hips forward, pressing their bodies flush together. He starts a rhythm Xukun immediately wrecks by pushing him faster, fucking back down against him, all pressure, and Ziyi’s vision whites out for a second.

“Ziyi,” Xukun says, “hold me _down_ ,” so Ziyi complies, pinning Xukun’s wrists above his head with his other palm, and the angle is better like this, too, lets him grind more deeply into him. Xukun’s head falls to the side, the lines of his neck lengthening.  

He lifts his hand from Xukun’s hip to comb his fingers through the damp hair at the base of Xukun’s neck, seeking out the skin beneath. Palm resting on the side of Xukun’s throat, and again Xukun tilts into the contact. His expression as he looks up at Ziyi shockingly unguarded, close to tender, out-of-place for what this is, and Ziyi wants to look away or burn it into his memory, he’s not sure which.

“You could come just from this,” Ziyi murmurs, meaning it as an observation but the roughness of his voice turns it into a challenge, and Xukun’s entire body jerks upwards. “Wouldn’t even need to touch you.”

Xukun makes a noise like he’s been hit. “The worst,” he repeats, high and strained.

He’s tensing, the movement of his hips in answer to Ziyi’s thrusts growing erratic, cock full and flushed against his stomach, and Ziyi’s let go of his hands by now but he still hasn’t made any move to touch himself. The sight of him on the verge of breaking burns all the oxygen out of the air. This time he’s less controlled, shaking as he comes apart around Ziyi’s cock, gasping something incoherent as his back arches, the architectural line of his shoulders snapping taut. Ziyi slows, intending to pull out, but Xukun curls a hand around his hip and pushes him onto his back, manoeuvring himself upright and sinking back down on Ziyi’s cock. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth, gaze going all pinpoint searing intensity the way it does when he’s on stage, familiar yet not. It doesn’t take long for Ziyi to come, and Xukun rides him through it, all the shattering aftershocks, though he has to be so sensitive it hurts.

Finally Xukun rolls off him, a boneless sprawl of limbs on the floor. Ziyi tries to catch his breath. “Your shirt’s ruined,” he says, which for some stupid reason is the first thing to come to mind.

Xukun picks at the silky fabric, stained probably beyond repair with sweat and come. “It’s Chengcheng’s,” he mutters. “Fuck, he’s going to kill me.”

The words jolt a laugh out of Ziyi, and an unsteady smile spreads across Xukun’s face in response, startling in its uncautious warmth. Ziyi sits up, intending to get a towel to clean them both up, but Xukun catches his wrist. Thumb over his pulse point.

“Don’t go yet,” Xukun says, all raw around the edges. There’s a lot they’ll need to say to each other, later. For now, though, Ziyi just lets Xukun draw him back down beside him.

“Okay,” Ziyi says. “Then I won’t.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm still getting the hang of these two so please let me know what you thought...


End file.
